


it’s an act of magic ( if you believe in them at all )

by Niahara_Erskine



Series: Tales from the Primordial Soup [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8538382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niahara_Erskine/pseuds/Niahara_Erskine
Summary: Britannia is never meant to be forever; it is a stop like many others had been throughout the millenniums. It is convenience, having your enemy in sight in order to be able to counter their actions. It is never meant to be the place they will later come to yearn to return to, the place where their little Arrangement will be put into effect. It is merely a stopping point, until it isn't anymore. Until it becomes home.





	1. A goddess called Britannia

**Author's Note:**

> This is the promised sequel to 'hearts can be well-hidden.' It will probably follow a similar outline to the other story, presenting moments in time up until the Apocawasn't ( and there will be another sequel after those events ). However, it will also have some crossovers ( like the two in this chapter ). I haven't mentioned them in the tags, because I'm not sure if I'll go further than just hinting at events. 
> 
> Warning: ( as before ) Contains somewhat controversial views and retellings of biblical events and characters.

There’s an old woman living on top of a hill. Her hands are old and withered, but nimble still and she spins her thread relentlessly, never a moment of pause neither a moment of hesitation. She spins and spins, alone and unseen, without humanity every knowing her thread is made of seconds and minutes and hours, of days turning into weeks and weeks into months.

There’s an old woman who does nothing more than spin her thread and smile mysteriously as she does so. All around her the thread weaves tapestries of our history, each second painted in color, giving shape to the memories of humankind. She spins and we spin with her, puppets on strings blown by the winds of passing minutes.

There is an old woman living alone on a hill. Her hands spin the most precious of yarn, made of minutes and seconds, the thread of the ages to have gone by and ages to come. She is relentless and merciless, a being to be both feared and respected. Tell me, have you wondered what her name is?

Atop a hill, an old woman spins the thread of humanity. Her name is Time and there is no hiding from her ever watchful gaze.

\---

In the end, they both end up in Britannia. The small village in Gaul is no longer; is should not surprise them, though it does, the passing of mortal lives, still so fleeting in their eyes. Where before boisterous laughter and scratchy harp music had rung, now there is only a Roman garrison, a bitter victory a century in the making. No grave marks their existence; no tomb marks their passing. It is as if they had never been, stricken out of history for the audacity to challenge the might of the Roman empire.

“Supposed we should have expected it,” Crowley shrugs, gazing at the milling Romans from atop one of their wooden turrets. “Potion or no potion, it’s not like they could have resisted forever. There’s only so many years in a human life.”

“No one will remember them now,” Aziraphale sighs in a saddened voice. “Their adventures, their victory over Caesar. Even that dog of their that kept slobbering all over you whenever you visited.”

“Don’t remind me,” the demon grouses. Below a Roman captain bellows orders at his soldiers, unknowingly marching above the ruins of once loved homes. “I’d wager you could write it down. Some of the stuff we went through with them. Better than nothing anyway.”

“I suppose you are right. It won’t be the same, but at least it will be something.”

They leave soon afterwards. There is little reason to remain when the patch of land under their feet is no longer the audacious village of Gauls they had known, but rather another bit of Roman soil.

Below, a Roman soldier trips one of his fellows. The ensuring scuffle ends with curses, yells and the commander forcing them all to march for miles until sundown. The grin on the demon’s face remains unseen as black wings take him over the sea, towards Britannia. The chiding coming from the angel is half-hearted at best, mostly habit, then any true disapproval at his companion’s words. After all, Aziraphale could have thwarted the deed had he wanted; he simply didn’t.

\---

There’s enough of a difference between Britannia and the rest of the world, to make it worth it, to promise things to come. It’s still very much Roman quite like the rest of the world, although made recently so, therefore one tends not to notice anymore where he ends up seeing as Latin is the norm. However, a nagging feeling lingers, a glimpse of what the little island might one day become.  

Crowley spends time among the Picts and needs little in ways of temptation to entice them. He sees War’s presence all over them, glimpses her now and then red haired and savage, riding at their warriors’ side _. ( Etain might have been rescued and sheltered by the Picts, but it is War herself that taught her all she needed to know. For all the Romans had reveled in War’s presence during the centuries, they have still not learned to understand how quickly her favor passes)_

Aziraphale follows the journey of a young centurion until the very Empire he fought and bled for betrays him. By all accounts he should not be able to return to the arms of the woman he loved, his strength all but spent, but love is ever a worthy endeavor and the angel miracles his path safe and boots his strength just enough. _( Crowley calls him a sap, but still uses his wiles to make sure Agricola’s daughter ends up a laughing stock back in Rome. )_

Their roads part and entwine for the following centuries, roaming across the island and sometimes straying far from it. Aziraphale often leaves for decades, following the paths of the apostles across the Roman Empire, watching as their teaching slowly coalesce into the Holy Scripture. Crowley often returns to Rome simply because he is well in his right to do nothing at all, and still receives commendations for damning humanity _( the fire in Rome was a personal favorite for those Down Below. Unknown to them, Crowley had spent that particular year several hundred miles away from Rome, in Dacia enjoying their wonderful wine )._

However, bit by bit, they keep returning to Britannia, watching it as it takes shapes and develops, getting rid of the Roman presence and becoming something else. They watch as the righteous take arms against the tyrants, as the innocents are crushed under the machines of war, as the hopeful fall and still rise again, as the little damp little island stars standing on its own two feet, a mouse in front of a lion, yet resiliently so.

_( hundreds and hundreds of years later, in a bookshop in Soho, an angel will muse over the circumstances that first led them to Britannia. at his side, wearing shades and sipping a glass of wine, a demon will threaten dire consequences should the word ‘ineffable’ be uttered even once )_


	2. There's magic burning in our bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Universe has never been good at dealing in absolutes; there’s God and there’s gods, and the difference lies in more than just the capital letter. The Seen and the Unseen, after all, were born during the Second Day; both still linger among us nowadays, but it is mortal comprehension that keeps humanity for understanding what it truly sees, makes it turn a blind eye to it, calling it a figment of imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a blatant BBC Merlin crossover with a hint of another fandom as well xD There's no spoilers per se, but you'd have to be aware of the show's main idea to get the gist of things. I've been wanting to incorporate Arthurian Legends in the timeline for a while now and decided to go with the show as the way to do so.

One and a half millenniums in the future, a man out of his time will say, ‘there’s only one God ma’am and I’m pretty sure He doesn’t dress like that.’ He’ll have the right idea, although his words will fall off short of true understanding.

The Universe has never been good at dealing in absolutes; there’s God and there’s gods, and the difference lies in more than just the capital letter. The Seen and the Unseen, after all, were born during the Second Day; both still linger among us nowadays, but it is mortal comprehension that keeps humanity for understanding what it truly sees, makes it turn a blind eye to it, calling it a figment of imagination.

But our story lies in the past when humanity is still clinging to its old beliefs, to magic and superstitions, reluctant to disregard what it can plainly observe. Christianity at this stage is merely an idea, nascent, spreading like wildfire across the lands. It has yet to kindle the flames of faith in Britannia where the old gods yet walk, in guise, amongst its people, where magic blooms under fingertips and eyes that are merely human flash golden with power.

It is the past still, a past of warfare and discord, a past of pitiful vengeance and rage. A past where a King loses a Queen and puts a country through fire to assuage his guilt, a past where a Prince becomes best friends with his manservant and a powerful warlock hides in plain sight.

You’ve heard this story before, haven’t you? Are you ready to discover it anew?

\---

Neither of them are present when the Romans withdraw from Britain; Crowley is off following the Huns, and later Attila until his death. Aziraphale is in Northern Africa, a reluctantly silent witness of the synods gathering to bring the Holy Script to a final form. It will be decades more that he spends there, among the first Christian theologians and philosophers.

_( ‘they’ve got some things wrong’, the angel will commiserate later, half drunk and slurring his words, ‘and some of them are clear human fabrications, but well, I was hardly able to dissuade them. they didn’t quite believe me when I told them Luke had written his Gospel while being well in the cups.’ Crowley will have nodded off quite some time earlier, somewhere between the retelling of the first two synods the angel had attended. It all seemed dreadfully boring to him. )_

They do not return until the second half of the fifth century and they are met with a changed Britannia, one reclaiming its old name of Albion and separated in small, but strong kingdoms. They choose Camelot out of curiosity, out of a desire to see where destiny will lead this land marked by prophecy.

_( ‘angel, I’m telling you, it’ll never happen. I’ve inspired my fair share of false prophecies to know.’ ‘We’ll see. I have hopes for that young man and that friend of his.’ ‘that’s his servant, ‘ziraphale, his servant. Try to make the distinction’ )_

They manage to stay unnoticed well enough for most of the time; no one takes note of another patron in a tavern. No one pays any attention to another hand aiding in lowtown or the neighboring villages, unless they make a spectacle of themselves. They stay invisible, until things change and they can’t do so anymore.

\---

Aredian belongs to his Side, more surely than any human Crowley had ever met during the past millenniums. There’s so much ruthlessness and disregard for any but himself that one human can handle, but the witchfinder appears to hold it in spades, malice and wrath and greed all wrapped up in a flawed bundle that will have Them Below rubbing their hands in glee when the time of Recogning shall be nigh.

_( one thousand and a half years later, upon meeting one Sergeant Shadwell, the demon will have a very hard time keeping himself from falling into stitches of laughter. There’s witchfinders and there’s witchfinders; and then there’s Shadwell that holds nothing in common with them apart from a rather coarse vocabulary and the title itself )_

Crowley is no magic user; truly he has little need of using even his wiles, what with Camelot being at its boiling point – wrath and greed are taken to levels of almost excellence and envy is well into abundance. As for lust, well a little temptation never did go amiss – but his eyes are gold and his pupils are slit. There’s only so much Aredian needs for an excuse and he knows he has long passed the threshold. He keeps himself hidden as the witchfinder takes his sweet time lingering in Camelot, sleeping the better part of the day and doling temptations in seedy taverns at night.

He hopes the angel knows to keep his head down as well. _( he doesn’t )_ He firmly tells himself it doesn’t really matter if Aziraphale gets himself accused of witchcraft. He’ll merely have a few weeks of peace and quiet until the angel is given a new corporation _( he lies, even to himself )._

Aredian needs to prove himself before Uther even gives him the time of the day; his skills might be well known across the land, but that can matter little when it comes to the king. In the end, it’s not even his own miracles that give Aziraphale away, but rather the dark side of humanity, to ease with which you can betray one that offered you aid when given a large enough sum of money.

_( Judas betrayed Jesus for thirty silvers; it is not surprising that peasants betrayed the angel for a pouch of coins, not to Crowley anyway. Aziraphale will argue otherwise, use words like free will and ineffability and ‘they must have been starving the poor dears, can’t really blame them now can I?’ to excuse a family that served him to the witchfinder on a silver platter. )_

It’s not miracles no; it’s medicine itself that seals the angel’s fate. It’s the use of knowledge gathered over the course of millenniums, of cures long forgotten from the times of Cleopatra or Ptolemy. It’s herbs preserved from bygone ages and books written in scripts that are not of the Old Religion, but might seem so to an unknowing eye. ( _‘perhaps it’s just a little hint of a miracle as well, an indulgence really, but the poor dear’s cough was so bad and the tincture was not working.’_ ) It’s medicine and wrong timing and a witchfinder’s gleeful face when he sets cold iron manacles around the angel’s wrists _( not that they make any difference )_ and lead him to the dungeons in the jeers of the populace _( that hurts much more, but it will take decades until Aziraphale admits it )._

\---

“Angel you are a bleeding idiot,” the serpent at his side hisses in annoyance. The cell is cold and his wrists are raw wounds tied to his back so that he cannot find any relief, but still his sometimes enemy’s words bring a well humored smile on the angel’s lips. “Why in Hea-He-Somewhere’s name aren’t you miracling yourself out of here? ‘sss cold and I rather doubt you’d prefer to discover the sentiment of discorporation via flames. That time in Pompeii was bad enough and we were both dead by the time the lava caught up.” A burning building collapsing on one’s head tended to do that. Romans and their shoddy craftsmanship.

“Aredian managed to convince everyone that I’ve ensorcelled that child. If I leave, who do you think is next for the pyre?” There is a hint of anger in the angel’s otherwise placid voice, the brief flare of red over barely extended wings. Crowley hisses, a warning perhaps or anger at the situation at large _( it’s not panic seeing the red tinge over white wings, it’s not memories buried with a Fall, it’s not )_ and curls around the angel’s legs, head tilted sideways.

There’s bruises on the other’s face, cuts and sores all over his arms. The clothes are tattered and mud stained, pelted with leftover vegetables. Another hiss marks his displeasure, at what the demon knows not _( perhaps the fact that someone else mistreated the angel. After all Aziraphale was his enemy, he had the only right the threaten the angel with discorporation. Yes, that must have been it )_ and a scheming look appears in golden eyes.

“Next time, jussst blindsside the humansss and stop being a damned martyr, all right, angel? It’ll sssave you a whole lot of trouble.” Crowley finally grumbles in annoyance, mind set and already crafting excuses in case Below ever hears of the harebrained scheme he is just planning. A scaly head presses to the wounds on the angel’s arms and slowly some of them scab over and heal.

“That’s rather pointless, don’t you think, my dear?” Aziraphale asks with an indulgent smile, the same that will often flare on the angel’s face in years to come whenever he tries to whisper a conviction starting with _‘I always knew that deep inside…’_ “It won’t matter much once the sun rises, now will it?”

“Ssshut up, angel. It’sss purely selfish, I assure you,” Crowley replies balefully, glaring at the way the other hums in mock agreement. He’s not sure in which ways this can be counted as being selfish, but he’ll come up with an excuse in the end.

A few hours later, as the sun rises across Camelot, there is no sign of the demon that had kept the prisoner company before, nor does the captive resemble anything but a plain peasant. The wings are gone, the mere hint of Divine blessing is hidden deep; as for the wounds healing faster than it was to be expected, well nobody truly cares about the state in which a prisoner walks up the pyre. They care only that he is able to do so.

\---

Humanity is still at the stage where it will believe anything it is told, despite knowing better _( in centuries, it will reach a stage of not believing anything, even given proof, despite knowing better. We never quite got the habit of reaching a middle point )_ Moreover, it is just as quick to make assumptions, most often wrong then right.

For example, it sees a pyre and the face of a king set in a cold mask of anger, words booming with so deemed righteous justice. Therefore, the populace gathered around expects the one climbing the steps up to the pyre to be a felon of the worst kind, a magic wielder that tried to ensnare the minds of the kindly people that let him enter their homes. His reasons must be nefarious indeed and his end much deserved.

There’s not much to be said as the people gather and watch. The flames come alight under a fair haired and blue eyed man, fire licking at his feet, snaking around his ankles. The air echoes with chocked sobs and bit off screams of agony as the heat rises and those watching stand still, assured of the righteousness of the sentence and the end that is soon to come.

However, the expecting crowd is not allowed to witness the end of its macabre show. Something resembling a dragon or perhaps a wyvern given its size, comes gliding across the plains, heading straight for the pyre, open maw showing rows upon rows of sharp teeth, tail swishing with gusto in the air. Fear takes hold of the gathered populace, shouts of dragon or monster echoing in the air.

_( it’s not shape-shifting, he’s no Adversary to have the power to turn into a bloody dragon – wyvern, whatever, he’s not even sure about the technicalities separating the two.  It’s messing with human minds, something that he’s been doing since the Garden, it’s making them play to his tune and making them believe what he wants them to believe. Child’s play actually, apart from the fact that Aziraphale’s screams make his serpentine cold body go even colder. )_

The beast roars mightily once, twice, wings giving birth to powerful winds under their beat and the people fall to their knees in sheer terror, shielding heads and bodies. A few of the brave watch as the flames seem to die out and the prisoner is picked in razor sharp claws that close around the body, crushing it under their force _._

_( In reality, Crowley lands on the pyre, human shaped and dark wings unfurled beating fast enough to keep the fire at bay, if only for a little while. A crimson dagger cuts through the bonds, arms closing around the form of the angel and hoisting it in the air. Blue eyes, feverish with pain meet a golden gaze and the angel mutters a word of thanks before slumping unconscious. )_

Camelot’s people watch as the creature sails away with its prey, flies far away from the kingdom and for a moment all hold their breath in sheer relief at being alive. And then a moment lapses, and another and yet another.

The pyre consumes itself, flames kindled once more and nothing remains but ash and dust. Rumors start spreading, the appearance of the beast much more riveting that the burning of yet another sorcerer, the claims made by Aredian regarding the family and the child, forgotten in the chaos that follows. Knights mount to follow the monster, to slay it and return with the trophy and the ruckus slowly dies out in Camelot.

The witchfinder gazes with impotent fury as the results of his labor are turn aside by happenstance and mindless creatures. Later, he will discover that Uther had been paying closer attention to his work that he might have otherwise believed. Later, he will be given the chance he desires and fail in his endeavor. Later, as Down Below will claim its quarry, a vengeful note from Crowley will come asking his Side to be particularly vicious to this witchfinder. Reasons will not be offered, but then again Hell never truly needed any.

For the moment, though, silence falls in Camelot as people return to their work.

\---

There is an office in Hell. Several hundred years down the road, in the 21st century, it will resemble any CEO’s wet dream. For the moment, it’s very confusing even for the Adversary’s second in Command who cannot understand how the huge screen his boss is looking at works and why it looks so outlandish in comparison to everything humanity has doled out since its inception.

On the screen, a demon treats an angel’s wounds in a cottage in Gawant, his mutterings going unheard by his unconscious companion. The angel whimpers in distress and pain, hands curling into fists in his slumber, legs still a patchwork of burns and wounds. It will be years until they will both return to Camelot, years until the memories recede. A new Queen will be reigning by then, ushering if not a Golden Era, then one of peace and tolerance. 

_( Just a few years later, Aziraphale will ask about motivations and why Crowley would even bother. The demon will be all bluster and bravado, stating clearly that there’s no fun in tempting humanity if there’s no one to try and thwart him. His memo for Down Below will give similar motivations, also stating that ‘those bastards Upstairs might have just decided to keep the blasted angel and send someone else in his place. At least this one is predictable’ )_

In the office, the Devil lounges in his seat, ruby eyes watching the proceedings with amusement, knowing fully well Yahweh is entertaining himself with the same view. There will be letters sent later, scorched at the edges and faux angry, demanding that the angel stop corrupting his demon. There will be letters returned, in an amused manner, stating that as far as God’s concerned, the angel is having a good influence.

Another reply will berate, stating “That is the entirety of the problem, YHWH!”, whereas the answer will fail to return in the usual manner, coming instead with a cackling Gabriel in the gardens none but two now walk in the Heavens.

For now, though, an angel and a demon rest peacefully in a cottage, knowing they are safe, oblivious to the fact they are being watched with growing degrees of interest by the Powers that Be.


	3. The turn of the centuries

Time passes, churning endlessly, a loop of repetition painted in different colors that makes it seem as though humanity had learned everything and yet nothing at all. The same motif painted in the colors of destruction, the same inborn desire to bring ruin to all that neither Heaven nor Hell had nurtured in the breast of humanity, but rather the children of Adam and Eve discovered from themselves in the wide expanse of their new world. 

War comes and goes, ruby red smile plastered on her face as everything burns behind her. Kings rise and fall, Death cradling them in his arms. Kingdoms crumbled to ash and through their empty streets Famine walks in disguise. Plagues sweep throughout the land, relentless and merciless, while Pestilence laughs, eyes glazed and smile sickly.

Humanity grows, expands, thrives despite its bloodied past and ever bloodier future. And as it does, its guardians, standing on two different Sides _ ( or so they claim ), _ bend under the toil of their long lives, under the weight of the things they have seen, grow wearier and wearier until an Accord is struck.

After all, why bother with fighting each other when Humanity has managed to outdo both Heaven and Hell alike. 

* * *

The churches separate, vitriol spewed from both sides, rancor where once was peace, twisting relationships that had turned sour till then. The event is like a blow to Aziraphale, a moment of supreme disbelief that he will have a hard time accepting -  _ and forgiving _ \- years and years down the road, a chip in the well constructed armor of acceptance woven tightly around him, painted with words like inevitability and ineffability  _ ( just excuses all of them ),  _ a second of utmost despair that paints his wings red in anger, in fury, that makes his eyes blaze like the fires of the sword he no longer has, while at the same time bringing him closer to a Fall he had never contemplated nor wanted.

Crowley hisses in alarm, fangs sinking in the angel’s skin, a hair’s breadth away from Aziraphale’s neck, in the tender flesh of his collarbone and the other stops, the pain a momentary shock that chases the anger away, a full shudder coursing through his body as he glances with disapproval - and thinly veiled gratitude - to his slithery companion.

“That was hardly necessary, now was it, dear boy?” he asks, his tone huffed and aloof, eyes turning back to their cerulean shade and losing the deep fire of before. What settles instead in his gaze is resignation and regret, two layers masking the deeply rooted shame and guilt he feels at having been unable to stop the event from occurring. What good is his presence on Earth if he is unable to keep even the Church from splintering?

“You were frying my skalesssss, angel,” the snake hisses, cold body contorting closer to the angel, a reluctantly supportive action that he will play along as being utterly selfish latter on. 

_ ( Even though both of them know better ) _

* * *

It has always been children that caused the angel to break. Hundred upon hundreds of years ago, the death of Egypt’s firstborn had driven Aziraphale to his knees in anguished sorrow, crying out his misery to Heaven and Hell alike, though both sides had been blind to his pitiful despair. Now, as the First Crusade tears through the streets of Jerusalem, Crowley sees the angel break anew, hands stained with the blood of the fallen, faithful and unfaithful alike, the soles of his feet a festering wound as he walks barefoot across rock and glass, debris cutting into his skin while feverish hands seek out survivors in the destruction rained by the Christians. 

Jerusalem stands cloaked in flame and ashes and the loss is to great to contemplate by either of them, the dead beyond count, no grave large enough to bury them all. A river of blood running across the ruined streets, the shadow of Death present in every corner of the city and throughout it all Aziraphale feels his hope crumble once more.

“Come now angel. There’s nothing we can do here anymore,” Crowley says and tries to hide how his own eyes glisten wetly in the harsh sun, how his hands shake in barely suppressed anger. Another show of power, another useless hurricane of destruction that both Sides wanted to happen. Like the Flood, like Egypt, like Jesus, the Powers that Be had ever reveled in the misfortunes of humanity, in the chaos they sowed.

You can’t live on Earth for so long without growing fond of humanity, Sides be damned. And though he is loath to admit it, Crowley is no less susceptible to falling for the charms of God’s second children than the angel is.

This destruction, though it should delight him, brings nothing but a sense of abject misery and resigned sorrow.

* * *

There’s a reason why Crowley pretends to sleep away the 14th century and it has nothing to do with boredom and how dull it ends up being. The reason is the sickness, spreading across the land, sickly sweet smell permeating the atmosphere. It’s the Inquisition in nascent form, claiming lives left and right, demanding a toll from Death as payment for spreading Christianity’s faith. It’s the witch trials that have just started, the fire and the smoke evoking a different memory of another being tied to a pyre, flames mercilessly eating away at bared flesh, cerulean eyes wide with panic and pain. 

It is easier to try sleep away the 14th century than give name to the emotions churning in his soul, to the lead in his stomach and the pain in his heart whenever he watches the angel break down anew, whenever ash sweeps in his blonde hair as he stands witness to another execution, whenever his fingers close around those of yet another child dying from the Plague.

Demons don’t do emotions. And Crowley is loath to admit he is more aware than asleep as the 14th century passes him by.

* * *

The first time they sleep together is during the Renaissance. They are both drunk, both sad, both desperate. Both fed up to be the only unchanging beings in a world that keeps changing around them. So they fall together in bed, the scratchy cotton linens of a run-down inn harsh on their skin, their movements fevered and desperate, the desire to lose themselves in their lust driven actions too much to pay any heed to possible consequences or any type of coherency.

They wake up the next day, tangled around one another, their wings let loose at some point during the night, black and white entangled, eyes glazed over and skin glistening with sweat. They do not speak of what had happened, not in that moment, not in the many, many years that follow. They merely get together, mechanical movements bereft of any fire, clean themselves up and set on their ways.

The next time they meet, they watch as a King is executed before their eyes. Crowley denies it is his Side at work. Aziraphale echoes the sentiment. In the end it seems humanity itself has learned the trade much better than Heaven or Hell could have taught it to them.   


* * *

Their bodies are human, or as human as they can be made to be since they need to be able to host two celestial souls. They bleed and they hurt and they agonize like any other. It is nothing they pay heed to most of the time, their death often quick - rarely at the hands of one another nowadays - discorporation a reality they had long grown accustomed to, be it by blade, accident or baseless anger. 

Their humanity becomes a threat during the Great Plague of London, when the sickness returns, spreads out across the city they had both made their homes in. Their fragile forms becomes a painful reality when Azrael starts hounding their steps, the black voids of his eyes trained upon them, when Pestilence bumps into them on the streets, pale face twisted into a sickly smile, his fingers tugging with claw like nails on their own tattered clothes. 

Their frailty becomes a burden when Crowley’s skin starts itching and a cough lodges itself firmly in his throat, when festering boils bloom on his skin and the fever takes over, the first signs of the Plague painted on his flesh as vividly as colours on a canvas. He wonders if he should perhaps speed things up, escape this disease before it has the chance to grasp him tightly in his embrace ( he doesn’t ). He wonders if he should perhaps ask the angel to do this favor for him, bring down a blessed blade as he had often done in the far removed past. He can’t, not when he sees the sorrow in Aziraphale’s eyes, not when he feels careful hands placing cold rags over his brow, trying to keep the fever at bay, not when small miracles chase away the boils on his skin for mere hours before they return anew.

In the end he merely endures, until he cannot anymore. 

_In the 17th century, death becomes a bittersweet experience for the very first time._


End file.
